My YouTuber Big Sister

By Kiki Pape

January 2025

Picture 2014. Middle school was buzzing like a hive of awkward beauty decisions, parents pretending they understand your interests, and me at my vanity, trying to invent something that vaguely resembled adulthood on my thirteen-year-old face. YouTube became my unofficial older sister. Bethany Mota taught me how to flick a wing without stabbing my eyeball. Jaclyn Hill quietly saved me from zit-induced panic attacks, like some kind of makeup superhero. To the outside world, it was nonsense. To us, it was a full-on boot camp in surviving adolescence while looking mildly Instagrammable.

And then came the nights with my Morphe palette, sprawled on the carpet like a tiny artist who had forgotten to ask permission. I’d smear color like chaos had a personality. Bronze here, berry there, glitter everywhere—basically, Picasso had sneezed on my eyelids. Then I’d hit the shower and watch it all melt into the drain like confetti after a sad parade. There was a weirdly satisfying lesson in that: build it up, destroy it, try again. It was like life in miniature, but with better lighting. Those nights taught me to feel good for no reason, to experiment wildly, and to give exactly zero fucks if anyone cared. And honestly? It still feels good.

When someone asked me recently who the most influential woman in my life was, I thought of my mom, obviously. But then I thought of those pixelated, slightly grainy women who taught me that beauty wasn’t about hiding; it was about experimenting—and laughing at yourself while doing it. My mom was busy. Life was rushing. But those YouTube women were always there, showing me that even if you look like a glitter bomb exploded on your face, you’re still allowed to own it.

I miss old YouTube like I miss dial-up internet and CDs you had to flip halfway through. Long videos that weren’t afraid to ramble about life, eyeliner, heartbreak, or the existential crisis of a popped pimple. It was personal, like someone had literally crawled into your room via your laptop and whispered, “You’re allowed to try things, fail, and look fabulous doing it.” Big sisters you never had, but somehow needed desperately.

Looking back, it wasn’t just girls who found refuge in these videos. Men, women, kids, and LGBTQ+ creators and viewers all carved out their own spaces in this world. In 2016, James Charles became the first male CoverGirl, and suddenly the beauty world felt bigger, louder, and more inclusive. These spaces were teaching us more than makeup—they were teaching us that anyone could belong, anyone could create, anyone could take up space.

To this day, the beauty influencers I watched at thirteen feel like older sisters I still carry in my brain. They taught me practical things: how to contour, how to cover a blemish, how to blend. But more importantly, they taught me the joy of doing things for myself.

We’ve bought their products, followed their routines, and maybe even let them shape our sense of self. These parasocial relationships—good, bad, messy—still influence the way we live, the choices we make, even how we apply lipstick. And maybe that’s the point: they were never just teachers of makeup. They were teachers of confidence, risk, and the unapologetic art of being yourself.